


Fear not much while we're alive

by ChildOfTheRevolution



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Arts professor Grantaire!, M/M, Painting, Student activist Enjolras, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:09:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4761086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChildOfTheRevolution/pseuds/ChildOfTheRevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers being one of them, feeling like a god in the midst of the attention of his drug of choice. He remembers what it felt like to worship, to fully believe, to give more of yourself then what you had to give, not for the cause, not for the good of humanity, but for him.</p><p>And he remembers it all going to pieces, his dreams, his love and life, shattering at his feet in one singular moment. </p><p>Modern AU: What if Grantaire was the failed revolutionary? What if Enjolras and Grantaire meet 10 years after the fact? What if Grantaire was a jaded, cynical arts professor and Enjolras was an idealistic student youth activist? What if Enjolras had some secrets of his own? What if?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He doesn't look a thing like Jesus

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so i know i was the epilogue to do for my other e/r fic - but this thing was just bouncing around my head and i desperately needed to get it down. Who knew writing was such great therapy? 
> 
> Plus i wrote the whole lot of this thing, in like 4 days, which is super fast for me and has been a great distraction. 
> 
> So enjoy.
> 
> (fic title is from the most nostalgic of all nostalgic songs - 'young forever' by jay z.)

The line plays through his head like a line from a movie too cheesy for even Grantaire to watch. But he can’t help it, after an afternoon of thrashing emo alt music from the mid 2000’s as he splashed paint haphazardly on a canvas, the line sort of stuck. And now he’s here, at the bar, his gaze pointed toward the speaker at the back of the room. 

He most certainly doesn’t look a thing like Jesus, but the blond haired beauty captures his attention nonetheless. The golden hue of his hair clashing horribly with the orange t-shirt he was wearing which once again clashed with his bright red jeans. But the speaker didn’t seem to care. Which made it even better, there was nothing more attractive then the supreme confidence in ones self. 

“Eponine,” he says to his no. 1 bartender, “Who are they?” He gestures to the huddled group around the blond.

She glances over, takes in the blonds form and narrows her eyes, “They’re Marius’ group thing. Their normal meeting place is shut down so I said they could have their meeting here. “

Grantaire nodded, Marius’ ‘group thing’ had occupied most of his students’ thoughts, and words over the past few months. 

I would be annoying if Grantaire hadn’t seen it over and over again. Typical first year college kids, Grantaire had observed, could go in one of three directions. Most ,as it being their first time away from home, party it up and forget they have actual classes for the first couple of months. Some get overwhelmed and end up hiking it back to the bo-dunky town they came out of, and some? Well some get caught up in a certain kind of fever that only the young can feel. An idealism, a passion. They realize that, like the partiers, this is their first step to becoming real actual adults, and what do they want to do first? They want to change the world of course. Like its easy. 

And that last group are always the worst. Grantaire had had to mark too many mangled glorified versions of ‘liberty leading the people’ to have any sympathy for that kind of self-righteous stupidity.

He consciously ignored his sketching hand dying to draw as he looked upon his apparent blond ‘liberty’ leading his people. It would do no good to for his muse to be a semi legal freshmen who enjoyed a protest way too much. That shit didn’t fly with Grantaire, not any more. 

Because once upon a time teaching art to college freshmen had never really been the plan. The plan had always been disconcertingly, wondrously unclear, but it hadn’t involved teaching semi talented kids the difference between modernism and post modernism. Or grading art, like art could in any way be graded objectively. It certainly hadn’t involved lonely nights whiled away in a bar absently wondering whether students who weren’t actually in his class, were actually his students. Or whether the blond in the corner with the horribly clashing clothes was the reincarnation of someone very, very bad for him. 

Or whether the blonde guy was even gay, by the looks of his clothes, maybe not. Although it wasn’t like Grantaire was any sort of fashionista. He absently viewed his black t-shirt and green cords. Luckily for him, an art professor was supposed to look shabby and unkempt, added to his authenticity. It also added to the general mystique about Professor R. The students loved his whole anti establishment vibe; it probably never occurred to them that Grantaire’s glorious rebellions were long in his past and drenched in so much misery that he had locked the majority of it away. 

Because, to be honest? Idealism only ever looks good on the young. 

And there was a reason too much knowledge spoils even the most idealistic of them all Grantaire thought bitterly as he downed his drink and settled his tab. He couldn’t think here, not like he usually could, not when the ‘group thing’ in the corner was making him dwell on memories he’d rather forget.

But, just as he turned to leave, he heard someone call out his name. He groaned inwardly as he recognized the voice.

“Professor R. Professor R. Over here!” Came Marius’ dulcet tones, Grantaire hid a grimace and turned back to greet his student. 

“Marius,” he said, nodding his reception to his shiny faced, impossibly handsome young student. 

“Professor R! I didn’t know this was your hangout!” Marius said eagerly, his toe bouncing just a bit too much excitement for the pretty dreary bar.

Grantaire nodded, and gestured to his drink, “Just a quiet place for me and my muse.”

Marius sobered at the mention of a muse and nodded solemnly, “Come over and meet my friends, they really want to meet you. I talk about you all the time!”

Jesus, Marius sounded like a love-lorn fool but Grantaire found himself nodding helplessly and let himself be lead over to the fresh faced group of college students, absently remembering a few faces from campuses he did.

“Guys, guys! This is Professor R! This is the guy I was telling you about!”

Grantaire smiled and nodded at the group who positively glowed back at him. It was like being the focus of a thousand suns. All that youth. All that energy and passion. It was enough to make you puke. 

All except for one. Blondie stood there, arms crossed, scowl in place and Grantaire found himself giving his smile a hint of flirt. Couldn’t help it.

Blondie remained silent as everyone else was really welcoming but Grantaire can’t stop his eyes being drawn, once again to Blondie.

“And this is the leader of the ABC, Enjolras.” Marius says, a touch breathlessly, like a teenager at a One-direction concert. 

Enjolras. Spanish ‘To terrify’. 

Grantaire offers a nod and receives a jerky one in return. Not bad he supposes, as far an introductions go. The group eventually breaks off into excited chatters as Marius pulls him aside and grills him about the next assignment. It’s not strictly professional but Grantaire figures that it would only help his bad boy reputation, to be giving advice outside of office hours. What a fucking rebel. 

As Marius chatters away Grantaire cant help, once again, but let his eyes from being drawn to the figure across from him. He’s not really Grantaire’s usual type. Grantaire’s type are usually soulful looking, with tattoos and poetically beautiful eyes, their limbs are long and skinny and are, after all, completely and utterly harmless. 

But there’s absolutely nothing poetic, or harmless, about Enjolras. His gaze isn’t soulful or lost, but sharp and hard, the naiveté lost in the bitter blue of the deep sea surging there. His hair isn’t soft and curled, rather it is coiled and bowed, the strands a mimic of a halo, but look like a crown. His stance isn’t thoughtful, or eager, it is strong with a slight tilt, the legs parted and the arms crossed, not it defiance nor cowardice, but in a resolve which wraps itself around the twisting veins of his forearms. The clothes clash, yes, but they are not loud, nor are they attention seeking, they are a simple manifestations of the fire within. An expression of the curling flames that lick the insides of Enjolras’ very core. And his face, it is angelic yes, but terrible in its beauty. As if the face of Satan itself carved onto a mortal. A face that could kill thousands, a face that could lead to death. A pied piper of the most dangerous kind. These students are not children, and it is not a pipe Enjolras wields, it is words, simple words with the full force only a millennial could wield. With resolve so strong it could crack concrete; the veins of his neck will it, the fists of his hands drive it, the twist of his mouth make it so. 

And Grantaire fucking longs to immortalize him.

In painting, in sketch, in any which way. 

And it all reminds Grantaire of one person from his own past and ‘to terrify’ starts to sound vaguely prophetic. The realization makes Grantaire start to sweat, and he knows has to leave or else he’ll have a panic attack right there and then.

After winding up their conversation by promising to look at Marius half finished sketch, Grantaire mutters apologies and goodbyes to Marius and a few others names he can remember before he heads for home. The thumping in his chest quieting the moment he leaves the bar. 

When he returns to his apartment Grantaire tries not to think about it. He tries to paint. But he can’t. Not what he wants to paint anyway. The memories he had long since buried start bubbling up and he finds himself reaching for reds, and yellows and blues (determinedly staying away from the blacks and greens). Their brightness blinding and so far from what he usually uses to paint nowadays. And he let’s his hands fly across the canvas freely with no plan or goal, free painting like he used to, when his emotions were high and the overwhelming need to express himself became too great. 

When he finishes, it is well past 3 am and he can hardly bear to look at what he’s created. But he has to; he forces himself to; scrubbing the sleep from his eyes he blearily lets himself see what he has done to the blank canvas.

It’s slightly abstract. But a red and gold figure is still present. 

Grantaire swears and almost puts his fist through the canvas. Blindly, he searches his cabinets and comes up with a bottle of red cooking wine and downs it before falling into an exhausted, semi buzzed sleep on his couch. 

The next morning Grantaire shoves the canvas in his storeroom, ignoring every other painting in there, every other flash of black and green, takes a quick shower and stumbles to class, head still throbbing, because despite appearances Grantaire barely drinks more then a bottle of beer nowadays, his body seemingly rejecting anything more then what is healthy. 

Thank goodness the lecture is preplanned and everything runs relatively smoothly for the morning for once. 

A few mingle after class to chat and Grantaire doesn’t mind, he usually likes his students, even the trust fund babies who sleep through all his classes. One of them is Marius who hovers at the edge of the group and catches Grantaire just before he leaves.

“Hey professor!” Marius says, the exclamation point always evident in his voice.

Grantaire tries to smile, “Marius, how are you going?”

“Great, I mean really well. I was wondering whether I could ask you something?”

“Sure thing Marius, you always know I’m here for any questions you might need to ask.”

Marius fidgets, like he always does when Grantaire turns his full attention onto him. Marius has always been a little off center; Grantaire likes that in a student. 

“Uh, well, its not actually about work, or school or anything.”

Grantaire frowns, “It’s personal?”

Marius fidgets, “Sort of?”

Grantaire sighs; he didn’t usually allow himself to talk personal with students, because it usually meant someone was asking him out. But he had a feeling this wasn’t the case with Marius. “Sure, what is it?”

“Uh, were you a member of the PPP?”

Grantaire freezes; it can’t be a coincidence, last night with the group thing and the memories and the painting and now this? 

The familiar fast thump of his heart begins as sweat beads on his brow and he manages to choke out, “How on earth do you know that?”

Marius looks beside himself, “So you were? Oh my god, that’s amazing!” He exclaims, oblivious to Grantaire’s distress, “Enjolras asked me to ask you and I thought he must have gotten it wrong! But no, you were actually a member? Like full on hard core member?”

Grantaire grits his teeth, how the hell did Enjolras know? Finally he takes a breath and says, “I wasn’t just a member, I helped create it.”

Marius looks fit to burst and Grantaire just feels sick. He had spent a lot of time making sure all of that was behind him but he knew he couldn’t outrun something like that. 

“Holy cow! Wait till I tell Enjolras! The PPP are like his hero’s, you guys really shook the system. You have to come to the meeting tonight! Please tell me you’ve come, were just like them, we want to change things too. Just like you did.”

Grantaire starts to shake his head but one look at Marius pleading look does him in. That and the thought of seeing Enjolras again. He can’t lie to himself. And the fact that Enjolras is what’s drawing him? That makes him feel like the lowest form of scum. He hates that he is still attracted to people like him, the beautiful, yet terrible. He hates the he doesn’t have the will to stay away. Hates that he just can’t settle down with some nice normal hipster, eyes soulful, not sharp. Limbs loose and carefree, not strident and determined. The sensitive cute ones that come and chat him up in indie coffee houses, not scowling, beautiful guys he sees in dive bars who barely say a word to him. 

Inwardly he groans but eventually nods his acquiescence and Marius beams, “God, you’re going to be so popular! I can’t believe a real life member of the PPP is still out here, that’s amazing.”

Grantaire smiles bitterly, yeah that’s right. It’s only him and a few others left, probably in the whole country. Nice to know the whole solidarity thing, like love, was a myth too.


	2. Here we are now, entertain us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all your lovely kudos! here's the next chapter!
> 
> Enjoy :)

The pub is busy when he gets there, the numbers in the corner seeming to have doubled; and Grantaire has a feeling he knows why.

Once he is noticed he gets smiles of recognition and looks of awe, pats on the back and murmured greetings. Marius beams when he sees him and rushes to his side, obviously happy to have been able to be the one to bring the fabled idealist son back into the fold. And to be honest it’s so fucking similar to 10 years ago that Grantaire could gag. The fashion might be updated but the fervor is the same, the innocent yet determined looks, the naivety of the handouts spread across the tables. The converse shoes, the smell of beer and teen spirit. Even the table at the back with the two boys? Teens? All huddled around Enjolras like planets orbiting the sun, almost oblivious to the hero’s welcome Grantaire is being bestowed. 

He remembers being one of them, feeling like a god in the midst of the attention of his drug of choice. He remembers what it felt like to worship, to fully believe, to give more of yourself then what you had to give, not for the cause, not for the good of humanity, but for him. 

And he remembers it all going to pieces, his dreams, his love and life, shattering at his feet in one singular moment. 

Marius’ excited chatter pierces his memories and Grantaire makes himself focus on the present. 

“Enjolras! I brought Grantaire. Right hand man to the PPP.”

Grantaire keeps his gaze steady as Enjolras looks up and scrutinizes him with a piercing gaze. Then rises to his feet, arm outstretched.

Grantaire takes the hand, ignoring the sweat springing up all over his body.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras says, his voice unreadable, “Good to meet you, again.” 

Grantaire nods, not trusting his own voice. It was almost like seeing a ghost.

The two boys sitting with Enjolras rise and introduce themselves, there’s dark curly haired Courfeyrac who grins fit to bursting and calls him ‘comrade’, slapping him on the back. And then there’s dirty blonde, hipster bearded serious Combeferre, who smiles minutely at him and shakes his hand with a steady grip. 

Grantaire absently wonders if Enjolras fucking either of them. He can’t help but think it, like its hardwired into his brain. Nice to know there are still some parts of him fucked up by Montparnasse. 

Although he was neither like bold brash positive Courfeyrac, or the smart, dry witted Combeferre. No, he was Grantaire, partier extraordinaire, constant cynic and recklessly consumed in love with his own fearless leader. 

Enjolras opens the meeting, briefly mentioning Grantaire’s name, but not confirming what most of the group knew already, that Grantaire is here and was a member of the group that started it all; he can’t help but be thankful for that at least. 

The meetings familiar rhythm is both comforting and alarming and for the first time in a long time Grantaire itches for a sketchpad and a pencil. He tries to keep his fidgeting hands quiet though. He didn’t really want to draw any more attention then he already had. Furtive glances and outright looks of eagerness from members of the ABC make him want to hide in a corner. But he wasn’t that person anymore. He was a professor, of art no less. His past may be trying to ruin his present but he would not allow it to taint his future.

The meeting is boisterous and loud, with interjections aplenty and laughter common. Enjolras bears it, even smiles at times including an outright laugh at a joke a big bald man at the back made. 

Combeferre scribbles notes and Courfeyrac laughs the loudest. Marius is earnest and eager beside him, his shoulders brushing Grantaire’s, which is oddly comforting. 

These were what the PPP meetings used to be like, just like a group of friends, with something in common, with passion but with practicality too. The mood is festive and feverish, so much unlike the meetings at the end that led to the PPP’s downfall. Grantaire notices though, that Enjolras doesn’t try to control, only guide or facilitate. His face is open, and his eyes betray a mind always considering and questioning. Grantaire tries very hard not to stare.

Once the meeting is over and dissolves into another group of college friends at a pub, Grantaire is immediately ushered to Enjolras side. He tries not to roll his eyes, both at himself and at Marius who seems to think this is a great honor.

Enjolras looks up as he comes closer, his eyes studying Grantaire like a sculptor eyeing up a particularly ugly lump of stone trying to see its potential. Grantaire bares it well, seating himself deliberately on Enjolras’ left hand side. Better to start the conversation knowing exactly where everyone stood, or sat. 

Grantaire, as an art professor, is ever the fan of low-key social symbolism. 

He leans back casually, throwing his arm over the side of the chair and straightening his left leg before idly looking towards Enjolras.

“Alright Chief, what do you wanna know?”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows briefly before settling his face into a lightly interrogatory expression. 

“How long were you in the PPP?” He asks, voice casual but eyes sharp, almost piercing and Grantaire gets the faint idea that Enjolras already knows the answer to the question. 

Grantaire shrugs, “As long as it was a thing. I was there when it began and I was there when it spectacularly imploded.”

“And you were the right hand man?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, “Well we didn’t exactly call it that but I was the Courfeyrac, yes. Me and another.”

Enjolras nods and looks at his hands, his voice slightly softer as he asks, “What happened? You guys were massive, there was even talk of politics, of challenging seats in government? I never understood what went wrong.”

Grantaire laughs a little sourly, “What always happens Enjolras, peoples grow up, they see the world for what it is and they realize that can’t change shit.”

Enjolras shakes his head, unwilling to accept the pat answer, “I know there’s more to it then that. 2005 was your year. Montparnasse was all over the papers. You were too. I remember you.”

Grantaire looked away from that piercing stare, this was definitely not something he wanted to talk about. 2005 wasn’t the PPP’s year; it was the year that almost destroyed him, that Montparnasse almost destroyed him; a year that haunted him, even now, 10 years later. 

Grantaire swallowed, “The group self imploded, they got too big too fast and people couldn’t cope, the pressure became too much, everything got too political.”

“And Montparnasse?”

Grantaire laughed bitterly, the sound making Enjolras wince, “Fucked off to god knows where. I haven’t seen him in 10 years. Last I heard he was in Cuba. In prison. What does it matter now? No one gives a crap. Half the stuff we called for or protested against has either finished or actually been achieved by people who had the staying power to get shit done.”

Enjolras leaned forward, fire in his eyes; its intensity almost blinding, “It might look that way to you from the inside, but outwardly? People still talk about the PPP, and the people you said that got shit done? They only got it done because you guys paved the way for it.”

‘Why?” Grantaire demanded, his voice unnecessarily aggressive, “We were just a bunch of fucked up kids with half cocked ideas on how the world was supposed to be. Kids who thought people would listen if you just shouted loud enough, who thought the world would change if you wanted it to enough.” 

The pub around them seems to quite and Grantaire shifted uneasily in his seat, he hadn’t meant to be quite so blunt, but goddammit if Enjolras didn’t get under his skin, because as much as he wanted him to be like Montparnasse, as much as he wanted to hate him as much as he did Montparnasse, he wasn’t and therefore he couldn’t. 

Where Montparnasse was charm and allure, Enjolras radiated sincerity from every bone in his body, and that’s what drew people to him. His magnetism was born of every word and action, not from manipulation and control. Enjolras actually had what Grantaire had once thought Montparnasse had had. And that’s what scared the fuck out of him. 

Enjolras furrowed his brow, seemingly oblivious to the slight unrest in that group at Grantaire’s words, “You don’t have fond memories of the PPP?”

Grantaire snorted, “In the beginning yeah, we were just a bunch of scholarship kids looking for something to… bind us I suppose, it was pretty fun. But then it changed, Montparnasse started pushing too hard on some issues, and the group started to break. It got really bad.”

There is silence for a few moments before Enjolras pipes up, “Did you at least believe in what you were doing?” 

Grantaire is surprised by the astute question, because it had been one he had always asked himself, wondering whether his loyalty to the cause hadn’t actually been loyalty at all, only loyalty to Montparnasse.

He sighs, “In the beginning I thought I did. I mean I grew up in a trailer park with my mum who worked her ass off in three jobs to keep me clothed and fed. I had an uncle that got beat up so bad for being gay that he ended up in a wheelchair and nobody ever got convicted even though half the town knew who did it. I was angry, and I wanted to do something about it. Most of us were scholarship kids so we were all looking for something, for validation, from each other and the world.”

Enjolras motions him to continue.

Grantaire takes a breath, the next bit hard to say, “And then Montparnasse came onto the scene, and things, well things just changed. We went from a mildly irritating social justice group to a hardcore political activist organization. From no one knowing anything about us, to be put on government watch lists, being detained at the police station, being flagged down at the airport whenever we needed to travel.”

Enjolras considered his words, “And now what do you believe?”

Grantaire smiled wryly, “And now? Now I don’t really have the energy for any of that anymore, you know, all that sign waving, all that angst at the injustices in the world, all the speeches. Not really my scene.”

Enjolras seems to take the news with barely a grimace and Grantaire is vaguely disappointed, what had he wanted? Enjolras to rant and rave at him? Argue with him? What sick sort of perversity would find that it any way enjoyable?  
He certainly hadn’t ever wanted Montparnasse’s’ wrath or arguing, especially at the end when his moods had become so volatile that it wasn’t only Grantaire who bore the brunt of his anger anymore, when Montparnasse cut down everyone in his path if anyone as so much looked at him.

“And your mum?” The question comes out of nowhere, delicately piercing Grantaire’s wave of painful memories. 

Grantaire looks down at his hands, meticulously clean, free from splatters of paint for the first time in months. Now why had he spent so much time cleaning them before tonight? He pushes the question aside in favor of Enjolras’ innocent inquiry, “Died when I was nineteen. She got cancer and we didn’t have any insurance to take her to hospital.”

“And you’re still not angry? Not pissed at a government that allowed that to happen for so long?” The fire is back this time and Grantaire feels somewhat gratified. 

“You know what Enjolras? I just couldn’t be fucked anymore. I know that offends your delicate idealist sensibilities but you can only sustain that energy for something you truly believe in. I don’t anymore. If I thought the PPP would have had a chance to really do something, to somehow change things I wouldn’t have disbanded it.”

Enjolras looks shocked for the first time that night, “You are the one who disbanded it? On the cusp of a major political victory and you surrendered?”

Grantaire grins at the imagery, “Jesus Enjolras, it wasn’t a fucking war. We didn’t surrender,”

“Then why?”

“I did it to save us. You don’t understand, we weren’t like your friends here, not at the end. I don’t know whether Montparnasse had always been into hard drugs or whether he had just picked up the habit but he started dealing to the group, we didn’t know this, so when people started going off the rails, intentionally starting fights with the police and just generally losing the plot I began to realize what was happening. People started leaving, Montparnasse started beating down anyone that he didn’t deem ‘hardcore’ enough. Two had nervous breakdowns. Everything got fucked up. People changed. So I did what I had to do.” Grantaire swallowed, that fateful night still as clear as day, “I called the police on Montparnasse and got the hell out of dodge.” 

Enjolras leans back a little, his eyes losing their intensity and Grantaire is astounded to note a slight coloring to his cheeks, “I’m so sorry, I had no idea, I didn’t mean to push.”

Grantaire shrugs, letting out a breath, “It’s ok. I get it. The PPP was important to you.”

Enjolras looks away, “More then important. It’s the whole reason I started the ABC. It’s the whole reason I even got into social justice in the first place. When other kids had posters of their favorite bands or sporting hero’s on their wall, I had newspaper clippings of the PPP and anymore handouts or leaflets I could get my hands on. It drove my parents crazy.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it and Grantaire could just imagine a young Enjolras seeing the imposing brilliant figure of Montparnasse splashed across the newspaper, in awe of something so beautiful fighting for such a just cause. Grantaire knows because that’s how he was. Didn’t matter that it wasn’t the truth. Didn’t matter that there was darkness that clouded the figure. He stood for something greater then himself and everyone responded to that, especially Grantaire.

Grantaire shakes his head, “We were stupid kids.”

Enjolras leans forward eagerly, “Maybe so, but you were stupid kids that stood and fought for something when people were too happy to not question or rebel. That makes an impression.”

Grantaire has no energy to argue anymore, especially in face of someone so resolute, in fact his body feels heavy, like he’s just ran a marathon and suddenly he wants to leave, needs to leave. Needs to not have Enjolras’ brilliant eyes intent on his, or his body so close, or to smell his hair, which, for some reason, smells like strawberries. 

Mind made up, he sits back, out of that suffocating aura and fishes for his jacket from the back of his chair.

“You’re leaving?” Enjolras asks, his eyes intent but his tone slightly forlorn. Grantaire tries very hard to ignore it.

“Yeah, sorry chief, lecture to writes, paintings to grade. You know, all that professors stuff to do.”

“Will you come back?” Enjolras asks as he rises with him. The question tinted with a slight breathlessness. 

Grantaire shrugs, “Like I said, I don’t really go in for all this stuff anymore. No offence. It’s not really me.”

Enjolras looks beseeching, “What if I promise not to ask anymore about the PPP? Will you come back then?”

Grantaire smiles, unable to resist flirting in the face of such earnestness, “Could you keep that promise? I’d hate to tempt you.”

Enjolras looks markedly conflicted and Grantaire laughs, clapping him on the back, “Don’t worry, I might come back or I might not. But if it means anything, I think you guys could go further then the PPP ever did.”

Enjolras opens his mouth and shuts it, like a goldfish, “Really? Why?”

Grantaire shrugs, “They have you” he says awkwardly, “I mean I may not believe in much anymore, but if I did, I think I’d believe in you too.”


	3. We were the kids of yesterday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so when i realised people might actually want to read this i had to do a lot of editing so heres chap 3 a little late to schedule.

The next few weeks are hectic as finals are right around the corner, even Marius usually inexhaustibly chatty and upbeat looks a little worse for wear and his classmates suffer good-naturedly through his caffeine highs and inevitable downs throughout his classes with their own bleary eyed apathetic smiles. 

Grantaire could almost forget his little meeting with Enjolras if it wasn’t for the way he watched the early morning uni crowd for blonde hair or whip around every time he saw a pair of brightly colored jeans. Which, at college, especially in the fine arts department, meant every other minute. 

And then the dreams had come back, laughing green eyes and dark hair constantly invaded his sleep. Of which left him with sleepless nights and dark circles around his eyes. The students were convinced he stayed up all night partying and Grantaire didn’t dissuade them, it was far less pathetic then the actual truth. 

After a few weeks of this he stumbles himself into Eponine’s tattoo parlor. Of which she part owns and works at when she doesn’t man the bar at Grantaire’s favorite hangout.

A single eyebrow raise is his only greeting. 

“Hey Ep.”

“You look terrible.” She says immediately, her eyes narrowing, “Have you been drinking cooking wine again? That stuff’s really gross you know.”

He winces, he had been, just a little, but Eponine didn’t need to know that, “Nah, just dreams.”

She smiles sadly at him, already understanding, “Montparnasse?”

Grantaire avoided her eyes, “Among other things.”

But she’s far too sharp for that, “They reminded you of us in the good old days, didn’t they.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence before she says what he knows she’s going to say. 

“Enjolras isn’t Montparnasse.”

Grantaire smiles, a little bitterly, “I know.”

Eponine nods, because she gets it. Out of everyone in his life she would be the one to get it the most. And he tries not to hold it against her. Those days were long past and he had forgiven her the moment he realized that Montparnasse was a manipulator along with the best of them. That had been a freeing day. 

“So you finally want to get rid of the tattoo?” 

Grantaire can only nod and Eponine smiles sympathetically at him before leading him out back, Grantaire can’t help back sag in comfort that the familiar walls give him. And it’s the first time he’s truly relaxed in weeks. His life, lately, seeming to take a bizarrely nostalgic turn, which rather then soothes him, makes him anxious as fuck. 

Grantaire had had the majority of his tattoos done by Eponine; in fact he had been her guinea pig back when she was just a teenager with a shitty tattoo gun and even shittier handwriting. And now his arms, shoulders and part of legs were covered. They didn’t follow any particular theme, usually just something done on a whim and he loved every single one of them.

Except there was one, on his left collarbone, that had at least meant something to him. In stilted wording it spelled out ‘peuple pour le peuple’. 

Every founding member of the PPP had had one at some point, all done by Eponine, all done in that stilting childlike handwriting. Such a stupid hopeful thing that kids do when they never really believed that they could ever lose.

Eponine had covered hers up years ago but Grantaire had left his. They never spoke about it and Eponine never pushed. She knew it meant more to Grantaire then just the PPP. 

“Any idea what you want over it?”

Grantaire takes out his sketchbook and shows her what he wants. She raises her eyebrows but doesn’t comment. That’s why he loves her. 

It feels cleansing as the needle bites into his collar, the pain a reminder of what he’s leaving behind. 

Once it’s done Eponine makes sure it’s properly tended too and refuses to be paid, saying, “If this in any ways helps you get over it all then that’s all the payment I need.”

And he smiles at her, in awe at how much she had changed since he first met her. Gone is the skinny, insecure teenager and in its place is the mature, confident and frighteningly intelligent woman, still his best friend and the only real good thing to come out of the whole PPP mess. 

Not surprisingly the dreams don’t go away but he didn’t really expect them to but at least now the tattoo makes him smile when he looks at it in the mirror rather then flinch.

 

***

 

The break after finals finds him painting is his condo. An afternoon of painting turning into three days of complete and utter absorption, the artist within him seemingly waking from its slumber and looking to be fed. So he does, his muse is stronger then it ever has been and he tries not to think about it, or its implications.

His last muse had stomped his heart to pieces the fickle things they were.

And for the first time in a long time he truly revels in the joyous concentration of his paint, his sketches and even what’s even better is that a lot of the people in his apartment block have left for the holiday so Grantaire gets to be as loud and messy as he wants. 

The painting is fast and frenetic for the most part and he routinely has to strip down a thin grey t-shirt, getting too hot and sweaty as he whips paint across the canvas, his strokes steady and sure .

Grantaire gets into his groove for the third day in a row, his head bobbing to the mid 20’s alt playing through his speakers and his mind blessingly empty when suddenly the music is turned right down. Grantaire swears as he whips around, hoping that he wasn’t about to get busted for paint fumes, or busted for a noise complaint. 

However it isn’t uptight Angela from upstairs standing there in her prim pantsuit when he turns around, it’s Enjolras, standing and staring. With a bright pink t-shirt, yellow jeans and mouth a little gaped. 

Grantaire instinctively checks his exits then feels immediately stupid, although he does feel a little cornered as he awkwardly scratches his chest through his tank top, which is now almost see through with sweat, “Fuck Enjolras, you almost scared me half to death.”

Enjolras looks chagrinned as he puts his hands in his pockets in an oddly youthful gesture, “Sorry, god I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just, ah, Marius told me where to find you?” The question seems odd as if Enjolras is just realizing that coming to Grantaire’s place of residence of which he procured the address from without so much of a phone call was kind of weird. Grantaire stares, shakes his head, and decides he doesn’t mind. 

Grantaire nods as he wipes his face and hands down with a rag and tries to look semi presentable. In the face of his muse. Because life likes to fuck with him like this, “Well, here I am.”

Enjolras looks a little relieved at Grantaire’s reaction, “Aren’t you surprised I’m here?”

Grantaire shrugs, “I gathered you’d be around sooner or later.” And he wasn’t lying, something about their last meeting seemed unfinished, and Grantaire was right when he predicted that Enjolras didn’t like to leave things unfinished. 

Although coming to his condo seemed a little much, but once again he wasn’t surprised that Enjolras decided to go so far.

Enjolras nods but makes no comment as he sweeps his gaze around the condo, his eyes lingering both on the half open door to the storage room and then the half finished canvas that dominates the sitting room. Grantaire looks back at his canvas and is relieved when the painting, at this stage at least, looks abstract. 

The reds and yellows clashing slightly. But no more then a mess of color. It’s vibrancy is quite something though, he doesn’t know whether he likes it or not just yet. It seemed so new and fragile, like it could go downhill any time without sensitive handling. 

“You want something to drink?” He says into the semi awkward silence, uncomfortable with Enjolras’ extra long gaze at the canvas. He rarely liked anyone looking at his work, even his own professors when he was a student. And he especially didn’t like Enjolras doing it. There was something a little too raw about letting someone look at something so personal and private, made him feel too vulnerable.

Enjolras nods and Grantaire gets out two bottles of water he always keeps handy. It could get hot when he worked and dehydration was a real problem when you worked on as larger canvases as Grantaire did. 

“You still paint a lot? Even though you teach?” Enjolras says, once again eyeing the painting. 

Grantaire shifts restlessly and nods, “Yeah, although not a lot lately. This is the first time in ages I’ve painted for a extended period of time.”

Enjolras nods and gingerly explores the sitting room, his gaze continually darting back to the painting, like a moth to a flame, “When did you become a professor? I mean you’re really young.”

Grantaire didn’t feel really young but he didn’t mention that. Not to the barely legal gorgeous guy who was stalking him, “I got my fine arts degree when I was 21. Took honors, then my masters and eventually got my PhD. All in pretty quick succession. I was scouted early for tenure so the university gave me a scholarship and when I applied for a position as professor I got it first go. Probably helped that I was a minor celebrity at the time, as much as I could be.”

“They liked having a trouble maker rebel as a professor?”

Grantaire laughed, “Trust me, they love all that stuff at the fine arts department. Nothing better then a tattooed up painter who used to rail against the establishment to run their courses, the enrolment rates hit the roof.”

Enjolras nods and smiles. Before scratching his head as if stealing himself to say whatever he came here to say. Finally he comes out with a rushed, “You never came back.”

The comment seems off conversation but Grantaire knew it was coming the moment he saw Enjolras standing in his doorway. Fuck, he knew it was coming since the night he went to their stupid meeting. 

Grantaire shrugs, “I never promised.”

Enjolras shoulders drop, “I know.”

“And what use would I have been if you couldn’t pester me about the PPP?”

Enjolras looks away, “It’s always good to have a fresh perspective.”

“Or an older one.”

Enjolras smiles a little, “Or that. We can get a bit caught up in ourselves sometimes.”

“You need a devils advocate?”

Enjolras looks at him with a lopsided grin like the cat that got the cream, or more like a dog that got the bone, “Sure.”

Grantaire sighs, afraid of this and looks at Enjolras’ innocent expression, “So who have you been talking too about me then?”

Enjolras looks caught and vaguely guilty, but still innocent, how did that work? “What do you mean?”

Grantaire snorts, “Come on, I know you’ve been getting insider info on the PPP. There’s no one outside our meetings that ever knew what a jackass I was in them. So who have you been talking to?”

Enjolras looks slightly deflated when he answers, “Um only Eponine, but I swear she never told me much, just that you were a real pain in the ass when they used to have meetings.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, he should have known she’d speak to Enjolras the moment she saw what he wanted tattooed over the PPP. He should have freaking known. 

But he didn’t really blame her; she only wanted what was best for him, even if it annoyed the living hell out of him when she interfered. 

“Look kid –“, 

“I’m not a kid!” 

Grantaire sighed, “Look Enjolras…” but he can’t finish his sentence, he just lets it hang there like an unspooled thread, saying everything and nothing all at once. 

Enjolras gazes at him for a moment before dropping his eyes and shaking his head, murmuring, almost to himself, “I can’t work you out.”

Grantaire feels the need to laugh and say the same. But would that be really true? But he doesn’t answer, just returns the faintly alarming stare. 

Enjolras nods as if confirming something to himself but he still seems agitated as he paces the floor a little before turning his attention to the half open door to his right. 

Enjolras body stills as, at his angle, Grantaire can tell he can most certainly see a strip of the inside of the room and before Grantaire can say anything, like “Stop” Enjolras has pushed the door wide open. 

Grantaire feels it like a physical blow, staggering forward a little before righting himself against the wall. 

Enjolras seems struck dumb and Grantaire can only guess why, the spare room not being actually being a spare room at all, rather a storage room for all his old paintings and smack bang in the center of the room is Montparnasse, so lifelike and large, the figure painted in his own rendition of ‘liberty leading the people’. 

It had been his favorite piece back then, now he hated it, hated it but had never gotten the courage to burn it or give it away or take it to the dumpster. And it most certainly had been whatever had caught Enjolras’ attention enough to push the door open. 

The silence becomes too long and Grantaire clears his throat, heart thumping; Enjolras jumps a little as if being scared out of a trance.

Enjolras whips around, eyes wide, “Grantaire, what-these are so good.”

Grantaire blinks at him, he had been expecting scorn, maybe a little laughter or pity. Not appreciation, and certainly not praise. The shame over paintings Montparnasse had once called ‘divine manifestations’ had been to much for Grantaire to ever look at them objectively again.

Enjolras starts to look through the canvases, oblivious to Grantaire silently dying behind him, “Why would you hide them away in here?” The question is hushed, a little awed and Grantaire finds himself a little choked up, unable to answer.

Enjolras doesn’t seem to want an answer as he shuffles through more canvases. 

“I don’t know much about art but, these, these are so good Grantaire,” Enjolras says again, finally looking back. His face blanches when must see something in Grantaire’s expression and he pauses, his hands delicately resting on the edge of Montparnasse. 

The whole scene is so surreal and grotesquely comical to Grantaire, the meeting of the past and present affecting him so much so that he can’t help but let out a ragged little gasp-laugh at the sight. 

Enjolras tenses at the sound and suddenly he snatches his hands away from the canvas looking horrified, “Oh god, Grantaire, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to – I mean I didn’t even think that they might be hidden for a reason. It’s just that they’re all so good I had to look. I mean. I’m so sorry.”

Grantaire, despite being struck still, despite his heart racing, and being on the brink of a panic attack, can only shrug; his arms and shoulders feeling clumsy with the act.

It was weird, Grantaire had kept those paintings so secret, so kept away, like a dirty, horrifying remnant of his past, unable to chuck them away but equally unable to sell or show them to anyone. They just existed in this nowhere land of the past where Montparnasse was the center of everyone’s universe, where youthful fresh-faced Grantaire had been so consumed by truly believing in something for once in his life. 

And now? And now it seemed so stupid not to have done anything with them, because they were good, they were good paintings, painted with passion and life and when things were so optimistic, when vibrancy and life practically jumped off the canvas. And it seemed a waste to be so ashamed, ashamed of them and ashamed of himself for painting them or ashamed of even having the capacity to paint like that. 

Yes it had been a mistake to trust Montparnasse because looking back there were so many ignored warning signs, but knowing that he had evidence of at least being able to express the way he had felt at the time, like anything was possible, like the future was something to look forward to then feared seemed like an impossible gift, a realization of something he hadn’t ever considered before. And who had showed him? Who was his new muse? Who terrified him more then anyone he had ever met in the past 10 years?

Enjolras. The impossible golden haired revolutionary. It had to be some sort of sick joke, right? Like some sort of subversive version of “Annie Hall”. 

And it was almost enough to believe in him.

Almost.

Shaking himself out of his reverie Grantaire offers up a crooked smile, hoping to cover up any sort of lingering affects of a groundbreaking personal breakthrough, “It’s ok, I just haven’t really been in there for a while, not to look at my old paintings at least.”

Enjolras glances back to the image of Montparnasse and nods, as if understanding even though no one could ever possibly understand the sickness of feelings the particular room stirs up in Grantaire. 

Enjolras continues to apologize as he reluctantly leaves the room and Grantaire waves him off, a feeling of lightness settling on his limbs like a weight had been lifted, one he hadn’t even known was there. 

As they move back into the lounge/art studio Grantaire starts to feel slightly raw, like an exposed nerve and is both relieved and disappointed when Enjolras starts to make uncomfortable overtures to leave. 

It’s not until they reach the door that Enjolras makes one last entreat, the pleading slightly more intense, “Look, just come to one more meeting. Please. Just meet everyone again and just come. Just for me.”

Grantaire hates how much it affects him. Hates how easily he can still be manipulated, especially with the ‘just for me’. He sighs, his overwhelmed emotional state unable to resist such an earnest, honest plea, “One meeting. That’s it. And no more stalking. Or badgering poor Marius for my whereabouts.”

Enjolras looks relieved and smiles, brilliantly, seemingly not at all fussed about being labeled a stalker. Grantaire feels stupid and ridiculous and like scum, but he can’t help but smile, a little helplessly, back. Like a worshipper in the face of his new god, completely accepting of any fate that he gets dealt.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you love it? hate it? want more? want me to desperately stop writing because i use too many commas? Sound off in the comments or kudos :)


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